She sighed, wishing there was something she could do for her aunt. "I tried to protect her, once I knew the buggy was going to crash."
Doc Wilkins nodded. "We found her lying on top of you. Your maneuver likely saved her life, Miss Lane."
That made her smile. "It's the least I could do. She's been like another mother to me."
The doctor righted her gown and the sheet, then pulled up a stool next to her. "Tell me, do you remember the cause of the crash?"
She nodded, anger flaring inside her. "I sure do. We were coming home from Aunt Myrna's quilting circle, and some men on horseback gave chase of us. They were firing guns and screaming and carrying on like Sam Hill's own henchmen."
A frown marred the old doctor's face. "Did you tell the deputy this?"
She shook her head.
He rose, stripped off his gloves. "I'm going to get him. He needs to know about these men, so they can be brought to justice."
As he walked away, Angel recalled what little she could about the two men. In the split second she'd been looking backward, just before the buggy crash, she'd seen the face of one of the men in the pale moonlight.
Gregory stalked into the room, his jaw in an angry set. "What's this about night riders terrorizing you?"
She told him the story of what had happened, elaborating on the bit she'd revealed to the doctor a short while ago.
He listened intently, scribbling on a pad of paper with a short pencil. The whole while, his eyes blazed with wrath. "Did you see either one of them well enough to give me a description?"
She nodded. "One of them. I know he was a white man, average build. He had on a bowler hat, and had a dark brown or black beard. Couldn't see his eyes, though."
After he'd taken down the details, he closed the pad and tucked it, along with the pencil, into an inner pocket of his vest. "I'm going to report this to Noah, and we'll set a few of our light horsemen on the trail. Those assholes are not going to get away with this."
From the tight lines of his face, and the violent heat dancing in his eyes, she knew he meant what he said. While she appreciated his determination to avenge her, she did feel a small twinge of guilt. He'd warned her to be cautious around town, and she'd done little but give him guff in return. "I supposed I should have listened to you, about not being out after dark."
He touched his fingertips to her lips. "Don't even mention it, Angel. You, and any other lady of this town, ought to be able to go about your business without fear of being attacked or harassed, day or night. The problem doesn't lie with you. It lies with the cowardly excuses for men who act like such beasts."
"You seem mighty angry, Gregory."
"I am. They had no right to do such a thing. You and Myrna might've been killed, and then what? What in Sam Hill were they thinking of, anyhow?"
She felt the bitterness rise as she remembered the hateful shouts and slurs the men had hurled at her. "They were thinking I was a troublemaking bitch, and that I should leave town."
He stared at her, wide eyed.
"I know that's what they thought, because they shouted as much. I'm no lawman, but I'd bet my saloon they were after me because of my work to win the women of this town the right to vote."
He continued to stare, in stunned silence. Then he stammered a bit. "Why, I never thought..."
She released a sarcastic chuckle. "Oh, come now, Gregory. Don't you see? They're your ilk, these two. How can you be so all-fired mad at what they did, when you once called me a troublemaker yourself? Don't you agree with them?"
He shrank back from her, drawing his hand away. Then he stood, the action so abrupt he sent the stool sliding across the floor. "Now wait just a minute. I don't cotton to ladies being terrorized."
She rolled on her side, turning away from him and his duplicitous ways. "Well you'd best be after them then, Gregory."
He tried again. "Angel, you have to believe me. I might not agree with you but I'd never hurt you over it."
"Just get out, Gregory."
She heard him groan, then listened to his retreating footsteps.
He was offended, and she knew it, but she didn't care. Maybe now he'd see the danger of the bullheaded thinking that so many of the men of this town seemed to be afflicted with. It was a damn shame she and her aunt had almost had to lose their lives to knock some sense into his fool head, but perhaps now he'd change his stance.
A yawn escaped her lips, and she felt the sudden surge of exhaustion take over her body.
Before she could draw her next breath, she was asleep.
* * *
Chapter 13
Angel winced as she grasped one of her beer glasses, preparing to put it into the cabinet. The tight gauze wrapping her right wrist did help to stabilize it, but the sprain still hurt whenever she flexed it too much.
"Damn it!" She uttered the curse as the glass slipped from her hand and crashed to the floor, shards scattering across the polished wood.
Lupe rushed over with the broom and dustpan. "Heavens, Angel. That's the third glass today."
Angel rolled her eyes. "I know that, Lupe. I've been keeping count, same as you."
As she stooped to brush the shards onto the dustpan, Lupe shook her head. "Well, one less item in the inventory, I suppose."
Picking up on her friend's disapproving tone, she glared at her. "Lupe, I don't need to be lectured."
"Apparently, you do, because if you had any sense at all, you'd stop trying to work so hard. At least give that wrist a few days to heal." Lupe dumped the heap of broken glass into the refuse bin, then replaced the broom and dustpan in the corner where they were kept. Then she leaned against the bar, her hand propped on her hips, as if waiting for her to acquiesce.
Angel sighed. For the last seven years, she'd worked at the Crazy Eights, and for the last four, she'd been the proprietor. The old owner, Mr. Greenfield, had gone home to retire with his daughter and grandchildren, and had entrusted her with the care of this place. His confidence meant much to her; she knew how rare it was for a woman of color to own a business. Her own dear mother had never owned so much as a piece of land in the entirety of her lifetime. Her whole heart was in the running of this place, and in making it as successful as possible.
As if she sensed her inner struggle, Lupe rested her hand on her shoulder. “I understand, Angel. I know what the saloon means to you. But you've got to take care of yourself, or you won't have anything left to give."
She knew Lupe was right. Tossing down the towel she'd draped over her shoulder, she blew out a breath, sending the unruly wisps of her hair up and out of her face. "Alright, Lupe. I'll go to the apartment for a nap. We'll just have to allow a bit more time for inventory this month."
Lupe smiled. "Under the circumstances, I think that's very reasonable."
Angel untied her apron and placed it on the shelf beneath the bar counter. Then she trudged down the corridor toward the apartment. Letting herself in with the key, she closed the door behind her.
In the quiet solitude of her apartment, she took a moment to strip off her boots, denims and blouse before crawling into bed, clad in only a thin chemise and her drawers. The last two days had left her exhausted and sore, and she thought sleep would claim her the moment her head touched the feather pillow.
It did not. Instead, she lay there, restless, contemplating all the things that had gone awry as of late.
Aunt Myrna was still at the clinic, convalescing under Doc Wilkins' watchful eyes. Myrna's fever had broken, and she'd come awake for a short while during Angel's visit the previous day. Myrna didn't have any memory of the crash, or how she'd come to be in the clinic, but could clearly remember that night's quilting circle meeting. Angel found relief in that. She didn't want her aunt's recovery hampered by fearful memories. Their chat, while brief, gave her hope that her aunt would rally, and eventually recover fully.
Still, as the doctor reported to her, Myrna still had a long road ahead. She slept day and night, as her frail body struggled
to heal from the injuries she'd sustained that horrible night.
Shifting her position so she lay on her side, Angel couldn't help remembering that only a week ago, she and Gregory had been in this very bed, making passionate love. She could clearly recall the feel of his warm, solid body atop hers, the humid kisses he'd given her, and the hot, insistent stroking of his body inside of hers. She let her eyes closed, and she could almost see him there, his bare, muscled chest slick with sweat as he took her. The fantasy sent tingles down her spine, and made liquid heat pool at her core.
She tried to push the memories away, knowing they didn't serve her now. She reminded herself that she would never feel those sensations again, at least not with him. Not after all that had happened.
It was true that Gregory had vehemently denounced the actions of the night riders who'd terrorized them. That denouncement did not negate the fact that he saw her as a troublemaker, and had called her such. Whatever his proclamations now, the fact remained that he believed, just as they did, that women should not be allowed to vote. To her mind, the only difference between Gregory and those two men was the level of action they were willing to take to prove their point.
Tears spilled from her eyes, and she brushed them away angrily. Why should she cry over the likes of him?
She already knew the answer: she loved him. From the day she'd chosen to kiss him instead of slugging him, she'd given him her heart. Now that she knew she could never be with him, her heart was breaking.
Shifting again onto her back, she forced her mind to another matter of far greater importance: the election. Tomorrow would dawn Tuesday, November 6, 1888, and while the town of Ridgeway selected its new mayor, the United States of America would choose her next president. The crash and her subsequent recovery had kept her from spending these last few days on the street, marching and carrying her sign, but her passion for the issues remained the same. She'd kept up with the goings-on by reading the various newspapers Doc Wilkins subscribed to. After her aunt had lapsed back into sleep yesterday, she'd read an article in the San Francisco Chronicle about Belva Ann Bennet Lockwood, the only female candidate for president. Mrs. Lockwood had an impressive resume; she was a lawyer, teacher, and an author. Angel doubted men would be impressed by Mrs. Lockwood's list of accomplishments, as she was a woman, and a temperance advocate as well. Under the banner of the National Equal Rights Party, Mrs. Lockwood had already run for the office during the last election of 1884, and apparently intended to have another go at it. Angel respected Mrs. Lockwood's tenacity, and her determination to see her name on the ballot even if no one cast a vote for her.
She stifled a yawn, chuckling to herself at the ridiculousness of it all. If a woman could earn all those diplomas, work hard enough to run for president, and still marry and run a home, why were the men so all-fired determined that women should not vote? It made no sense whatsoever to her, but she knew dwelling on it would only give her a headache.
She yawned again, and let her eyes close as the exhaustion of the past few days finally caught up with her.
***
The curtains covering the windows of the small recovery room at Doc Wilkins's clinic were open, allowing the sun to stream in. Angel sat by her aunt Myrna's bedside, with her copy of The Canterbury Tales in her lap. Gregory sat beside her, and his presence did much to comfort her as they watched over the sleeping Myrna in companionable silence.
She was reading The Wife of Bath's Tale, the one her aunt had found so amusing, when Doc Wilkins entered the room. She and Gregory moved aside, allowing the doctor room enough to get close to Myrna and perform whatever he needed to. Angel watched the doctor check Myrna's pulse, breathing, and temperature, as he'd been doing regularly throughout the day. When he tucked his tools away into his bag, she stopped him.
"How is she doing, Doc?"
Doc Wilkins expression remained even as he answered. "She's a fighter, your aunt. Her temperature is close to normal, and her heart rate's picking up, though it's still a bit slower than I'd like."
"What about her rib? And her hip?"
"The rib will mend itself. But the hip is another matter altogether."
She looked at him intently. "What do you mean?"
"The only way to correct a hip fracture is with surgery. My expertise is a bit more generalized, so I'd have to call on a colleague to perform such a complex procedure, if I thought she could handle it."
She picked up the implications in his words and in his tone, and a shiver went down her back. She knew that whatever the doctor said next, it would not be what she wanted to hear.
The doctor sighed. "There's no easy way to say this, but Myrna is simply too frail to go through major surgery. I've seen cases where people have lived on for years after a hip fracture, without having the corrective procedure. When you combine this with her rib injury, though, things become far more complex. She's presenting symptoms of pneumonia, and I'm not certain her body can fight it off."
The gravity of the doctor’s words sank into Angel, troubling her. Tears sprang to her eyes as she thought of how her aunt must be suffering. She'd lived more than seventy years, and now she lay there, fighting for her life, all because of some misguided fools who thought terror was the way to get their point across. She pressed her fingertips to her temples, closed her eyes against the pain.
Gregory asked, "Why is she still sleeping so much?"
Doc Wilkins busied himself washing in the basin as he spoke. "I've given her laudanum for her pain. It makes her sleep, but it also keeps her resting so that her body can heal itself as much as possible."
"Thank you." Angel touched the old doctor's hand as he made his way out of the room. Then she and Gregory returned to their seats.
He drew her close to him, letting her recline her head against his shoulder. "Try not to worry, Angel. Maybe she'll rally."
"I dearly hope so." Her aunt was the only living blood relative she had, at least to her knowledge. Beyond that, Myrna was her last link to her mother, and the only one who shared sweet memories of the person her mother had been. Losing that connection might be as great a loss as she'd suffered when her mother died. She didn't want to go through that again; she wasn't entirely sure she could handle it.
"Your aunt is as strong and feisty as any woman I've ever known." Gregory sat in the chair he'd been occupying earlier, and pulled her onto his lap.
Wrapped in the protective circle of his arms, she lay against him and let the tears fall. She wanted to talk, wanted to tell him her fears, but no words would form. All she could manage was few sobs here and there as the fat tears rolled down her cheeks, dampening his shirt front.
He said nothing. His arms tightened a bit around her body, and he held her in silence, letting her release her pain and worry without judgment or interference. After a time, the flow of tears slowed, and she calmed a bit, buoyed by his strong, steadying presence. A wave of exhaustion washed over her, and she yawned.
A small sound drew her attention. She turned toward her aunt, just in time to see Myrna's eyes open.
Angel was on her feet and at the bedside in the next moment, with Gregory standing behind her.
Myrna blinked a few times, then her gaze landed on her niece. "Angel May."
She touched her aunt's cheek, felt the heat there. "How do you feel, Aunt?"
Myrna inhaled, winced. The breath rattled around in her chest like grains of rice in a tin can. "Like I was trampled by a herd of buffalo."
"Do you want me to get Doc Wilkins? He can give you some more medicine."
She raised her hand, just a bit, while shaking her gray head. “Not yet. That's what's kept me so sleepy, I reckon."
Angel clasped her hand. "But you need your rest, Aunt Myrna. The doctor says it will help you heal."
A soft, wistful smile filled Myrna's face. "Where I'm going, there will be plenty of rest and healing."
She gasped. "Aunt Myrna, don't say..."
Myrna cut her off. "Hush now. Let me talk to you."
Respectfully, Angel nodded.
"I'm old, baby. My body is too weak to fight much longer." She took another breath, this one shallower, but still labored.
Angel's hand went to her mouth, to cover her sob.
Myrna continued. "Don't cry, child. My life has been a good one, and you have been the best part of it. You're just like my own daughter." She summoned the strength to give her niece's hand a gentle squeeze.
Angel could only nod in response as the tears began to fall anew.
"I love you, Angel May."
"I love you, Aunt Myrna." She leaned down to kiss her wrinkled brow.
Myrna turned her eyes to Gregory. "Well, deputy. Do you think you can take on my niece, and love her real good for me?"
Gregory placed his large hands on Angel's shoulders, giving them an affectionate squeeze as he replied, and “I plan to do just that."
The smile on Myrna's face became even more serene. "Good. About time." Her eyelids drooped, but she opened them again.
Angel did her best to compose herself, taking a deep breath.
Myrna winced again, closing her eyes against some unknown discomfort.
Gregory stepped away. "I'll get the doctor."
Left alone with her aunt, Angel felt more helpless that she ever had before. She still clung to her aunt's hand, because she could do nothing else to offer her comfort. The idea of losing Myrna weighed on her as heavily as wool cloak drenched with water. She knew that it would be selfish of her to wish her aunt longer life, if that life was to be marred by pain and loss of independence. So, while her aunt lay there, her face tight from whatever was ailing her, she flung a silent prayer heavenward that God would have his way, and that she would have the strength to go on, no matter the outcome.
Gregory returned with the doctor, who already had the vial of laudanum in hand.
Doc Wilkins came to the bedside, and asked, "Myrna, are you in pain?"
Myrna nodded. "My chest. Hurts something fierce."
The doctor extracted a small object from the pocket of his medical coat, wrapped in a handkerchief. He unwrapped it, revealing a spoon. Then he dosed out the medicine, and gave it to Myrna.
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